


Keep Our Hearts Ever Burning

by TheoMiller



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post Rogue's Home, Pre Player's Ruse, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoMiller/pseuds/TheoMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fisk and Michael celebrate a Calling Night without anyone trying to frame them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Our Hearts Ever Burning

"Well," said Fisk, "could be worse."

"Worse than snowed in on the longest, darkest, coldest night of the year?"

"We could be out in it. And it's the longest, but dark and cold depend on weather and lunar cycles. Aren't you supposed to be the optimist?"

"It's Calling Night. I just--never mind. I'm being ridiculous."

Fisk rolled his eyes and stood up, offering his hand to Michael. "Do you remember our last Calling Night?"

"I almost died." He looked bemused, watching Fisk curiously as Fisk pulled him to his feet and dragged him by the hand over to where the horses were resting but not sleeping, unused to being indoors.

"This time," said Fisk, "we'll have a decent holiday. Come on, we'll toast bread. Or rather, I'll toast bread, and you'll watch in undisguised envy. I know you have brandy for medical purposes, I have a flask of gin for non medical purposes, we'll water it down with snow and drink by the fire."

Michael's face lit up with joy and mischief. "Fisk," he said, "are you being festive?"

"Falalalalala lalala la," Fisk sing-songed, and Trouble tilted his head curiously.

"I'll get out the wine I have if you promise not to sing," Michael laughed.

Fisk grinned and held up the loaf of bread. "I'll toast you some perfect bread if you sing Good King Wenceslas for me," he said. Michael was shy about his singing, despite being infinitely better at it than Fisk.

"Deal."

Michael sliced the bread into pieces while Fisk fished out the alcohol and braved cracking the door open a bit to gather snow. He also stirred up the fire a bit so it was crackling merrily when his squire returned, shivering, with the alcohol.

"I left the wine alone," he said, as he huddled by the flames. "It's less likely to burn a hole in my throat on the way down."

Michael laughed again and wrapped his pack blanket around his shoulders before joining Fisk by the fire. He wordlessly handed over two slices of bread and the roasting sticks.

Fisk hummed the tune to Good King Wenceslas pointedly as he set to work.

"I need at least some alcohol before I'm singing," said Michael.

His squire nudged his shoulder against Michael's, but rolled the wine over to him. "Share the bloody blanket," Fisk grumbled.

"Ask nicely," said Michael.

"Would you please share the bloody blanket, Noble Sir?"

Michael shifted and draped half of the blanket over Fisk's shoulders. After a moment's pause, he left his arm there, curled around Fisk's waist.

Fisk turned to look at him, and Michael's stomach swooped inexplicably. From the expression on Fisk's face, he felt the same. For a moment, they stared at each other with tension in the air - like holding two magnets together on the same pole, a heavy pressure between them, neither quite able to move and break the spell - and then they both turned away, laughing quietly.

"Here," said Fisk. He plucked one of the slices of perfect bread off the roasting sticks and handed it to Michael.

Michael didn't eat it, just stared at Fisk intensely enough that Fisk went a bit pink. Michael was always oddly intense, but this was different.

He wasn't sure who leaned in first, but the bread dropped off the roasting stick and Fisk barely even noticed. And it wasn't even anything special, the kiss, just chapped lips and that swooping feeling threatening to overwhelm both of them.

"Oh the gods," Michael said, "you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“About as long as me,” suggested Fisk, and Michael’s arm tightened around his waist. “Your toast is getting cold,” he pointed out, and Michael laughed.

“Well, I’d hate to waste your handiwork. Help me get this wine open, would you?”

Fisk rolled his eyes and took the bottle back, then pried the cork free. “Tada,” he said drily.

“I loosened it,” Michael told him.

Rolling his eyes, Fisk passed the bottle back and watched the fire flare and crackle as Michael made short work of the bread beside him. Fisk turned to ask Michael if he wanted another piece, except Michael was at that exact moment drinking from the bottle of wine, the dark green glass pressed against his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbing, so Fisk entirely lost the ability to speak. Instead he stared at Michael with wide eyes, lips faintly parted.

Michael slowly lowered the bottle. “Did you want to try some—?” he asked, haltingly, as his eyes flickered over Fisk’s face and down to his lips.

Fisk moved to straddle Michael’s lap, curved his fingers around the knight’s chin, and stroked tentatively at Michael’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. Michael opened his mouth under the touch, and Fisk made a quiet noise before leaning in to slot their mouths together again, this time venturing to run his tongue along Michael’s lip before he pulled back.

“Oh,” said Michael, the sound punched out of him, and then he sat up and shifted so he had the height advantage again, and then very insistently kissed Fisk again, licking at the seam of his mouth and curling his tongue around Fisk’s. Their teeth bumped together painfully when Fisk moved to wrap his arms around Michael’s neck, and Michael murmured an apology.

Humming in reply, Fisk nipped at his bottom lip and then sighed happily when Michael tugged on his hair in response. Curiously, Michael repeated the action and then grinned at his squire when he made another pleased noise and let his head tip back a bit. “You like that,” Michael said.

Fisk huffed. “It seems I like things that give me a headache,” he said. “Gin. Teeth-knocking. Hair-pulling. Harebrained adventures. You.”

“I like you, too,” Michael told him, and Fisk’s cheeks darkened as heat flooded his face. “And I think I like Calling Night.”

“Do you like it enough to sing for me?” Fisk asked slyly.

“All right, all right, get off my lap so I can breathe, and I’ll sing for you.”

Fisk darted in to kiss Michael one last time, then slid out of Michael’s lap to curl up against his side, catlike. “Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Happy Calling Night.”


End file.
